Tuesday, 19 October 2010

Old Bag Postwar Sex Conspiracy.

Slutty American G.I.s sample the carnal delights of English slags while their comrades lie dying on a battlefield somewhere in a quagmire of Nazi jizz.

The main thing I hate about old people is the fact that not a single bloody one of them will ever admit to knowing what sex was, let alone doing it, outside of marriage. By “old people” I’m talking quite specifically about the generation that came of age before or during World War II and went on to parent the Baby Boom. In cultural theory, they are referred to as the Silent Generation, and while they never shut up on topics like immigration, pre-decimal money and how you used to be able to leave your front door open, when it comes to talk of wartime how’s yer father?, they definitely live up to their name.

Fair enough, their private lives and sexual morals are their own business. But again and again they reel out this fairytale idea of an innocent generation that believed wholeheartedly in storks and cabbage patches, where each and every one of them learned about sex and reproduction via a ‘happy accident’ in the hours/ days/ weeks/ months/ years following their marriage.

I’ll concede that intercourse was a taboo subject back then. Christianity was more prevalent, and sex education was less of a priority. But while I don’t doubt there were a number of wedding night virgins, I find it impossible to believe that everybody was as utterly naive as they pretend they were.

THERE WAS A WAR ON, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!
Do old people really expect us to believe that for nigh on six years — six terrible, barbaric, godforsaken years when every day might have been their last — not a single unmarried person had sex, purely because they had absolutely no idea what it was?

Yet not one veteran has ever gone on record explaining how a worldly Officer schooled horny troops on the birds and the bees before letting them loose at brothels in every port, until whole battalions were pus-ridden and blind with syph.

Not one man has ever gone on one of those documentaries and bragged about how, after escaping conscription on account of flat feet, he ran through every girl in the munitions factory until his white-feather dick waved a white flag.

Not one old bag has ever sat her granddaughter on one knee and told how she accommodated so much G.I. semen during the final years of the war she was awarded a George Cross and earned the nickname “Pearl Harbour.”

The whole steely silence reeks of a cover up. I’m pretty sure that by V.E. Day things must have gotten so debauched that the blitz streets were awash with jubilant Home Guards having ticker-tape anal gangbangs with Land Girls while the Military Police stood back circle jerking over ration coupons in lieu of digestive biscuits.

Upon the damning realisation that wartime infidelities seriously jeopardised a return to normal British family values, the Home Office, backed by the Ministry of Health and the Church of England, must have implemented top secret plans for a blanket sex denial in the interests of National Security. Thereafter, every man and woman would have been herded into same-sex groups, treated for venereal disease, shown a propaganda film titled something like Loose Lips Sink Relation-ships, and forced to sign away any sexual knowledge whatsoever under the Official Secrets Act.

And so with the help of a mythical, patriotic stork that stoically delivered infants through the still peacetime nights, the brave virgin countrymen of an innocent empire went forth and multiplied, passing down their callow creed and rebuilding our green and pleasant land fumble by furtive fumble.

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About the Author

Chris Warsop is a self-employed graphic designer, art director, writer, interviewer, video maker and general creative hired-gun. His background is in publishing and the music industry, having produced work for albums, movie packaging, t-shirts, posters, magazines, newspapers and books. He has also toured extensively with various bands throughout UK, USA, Canada and Russia. Chris finds the convention of writing a grandiose bio like it was written by one's Publicist, or talking about oneself as a business using 'we' quite absurd. I particularly like it when people accidentally slip out of third-person, thereby revealing the whole process for the sham that it is. Nevertheless, if that is what one must do to "get on in life" then that's what we'll do here.